Hate Me Love Me

33| A Bloody Warning ⚠

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֍҉֍҉♥҉֍҉֍

"It is always by way of pain, that one arrives at pleasure." --- Marquis De Sade.

֍҉֍҉♥҉֍҉֍

Alaric Aldrois

I spit the blood from my mouth and snarl at the men sprawled in front of me.

If they thought that cornering me at a street end was going to benefit them, they've got another thing coming.

'You think I've gone soft, don't you?!' I snap at them menacingly, and two of them crawl back.

I roll my eyes. 

Useless.

'My father sent you, didn't he?' I ask, and when I don't get a reply, I grab the collar of the closest man, pull him up to a standing position with one arm, and growl in his face.

'Tell me!'

He stutters and struggles, and eventually says 'Yes.'

I drop him roughly to the ground, the pain in my knuckles increasing.

One of the men recovers enough to jump up and charge at me, pushing me back hard enough to smash my temple onto the hard stone wall behind me. 

I can feel the warm, sticky blood trickling down my face.

I hold in a groan and punch his jaw, wait till he gets up again, and punch his nose. He clutches it, eyes wide at the amount of blood coming out, which is nothing compared to me, and staggers back.

When I'm satisfied with the groans and whines coming from the seven men writhing on the ground, I spit out another mouthful of blood and try my best to walk away without showing the limp in my leg caused by the stick the second man had.

It's an effort to even drive my car, and when I reach my mansion, my father's standing in the entrance hall, next to the glass sculpture.

His ostentatious clothes are ironed to perfection. He's clean, immaculate, and-

-Angry?

Understatement.

'Did you send them after me? Your own son?!' I spit, not caring about my behaviour any longer. The glare he sends me is murderous, but I don't even flinch.

Not anymore. Not after what he's done.

'Where are they?' he asks, and his voice comes out laced with threats.

I know he's talking about his men.

His son is standing in front of him, bleeding his guts out, dizzy with pain, but of course, all he cares about are his workers.

'Done for,' I say, rubbing my jaw, and regretting it because of the dried blood collected there.

My father says nothing. He just pushes his hands in his pockets and takes a deep breath before saying 'Stay away from her if you don't want a repeat of today.'

I freeze. My lungs stop mid-breath, my heart stops mid-pump, but my thoughts? Oh, they've only just started.

'Don't you dare touch her!' I say through clenched teeth. I curl my fingers into fists and remind myself to stay calm. He wants me to be affected, and I'm doing just that. I'm playing his game, and I want out.

I want a fucking break.

'I know what's good for you, and she's not. It's your duty to listen to me. I'm going to say this once, and only once. If you continue seeing her, be prepared to face the consequences. She's changing you, and I can see it. 

You've never spoken to me disrespectfully until today, and this just won't work. You've been missing your piano and fencing lessons too. In the future, when you take over my business, we're going to have to be able to cooperate, and pushing her into the picture will ruin everything,' his voice is clipped, rehearsed, and final.

Before he turns around and leaves, he says one last thing: 'You know better than to make me repeat myself. And you can forget about meeting your mother this week.'

I watch his tall figure stalk away, the heels of his polished, black leather shoes clicking on the tiles like the timer of a bomb. If he stops walking, he'd say something more hurtful to me. If his feet are idle, the timer will stop, and the bomb will explode.

I want to run after him and tackle him to the floor. Pull his teeth out one by one and laugh at the screams that emanate from his mouth. I want to rip his useless heart out with my bare hands. He doesn't seem to need it. He never uses it. He'd still live without it, and I could donate it to someone worthy of one.

I stumble up the stairs, cursing the lift because it's too far down the hall, and give the finger to every houseworker I see before slamming my bedroom door as hard as I can. The loud sound doesn't satisfy me, and for a moment, I debate whether or not I should go back to the men and beat them up even worse to get my anger out. To keep giving blows till I collapse out of exhaustion.

I look in the mirror with shame clinging to every part of me. I should've dodged better. I should've fought better. I should've been better. I could've avoided this blood if I was better.

I wash my face, wincing terribly as the cold water runs over the cuts on my jaw, my temple, my cheeks, my nose. The bruises on my arms and legs. My chest hurts, and I don't know if it's physical pain or mental pain. 

Why does mental pain hurt your chest? The brain tells the heart to hurt. Does that have something to do with the intense way the blood's pumping through my veins? Does my heart realize that the pain's making me need more blood?

I don't know. I'm not a biology student.

Normal fathers would send a nurse to their hurt son, or a form of medication. My father's used to seeing my bloodied body, and knows I usually end up tending to myself.

It's a way to show independence. Survival.

What he doesn't know, is that I've never felt as bad as today. I've always started fights, and won, but today, my own father sent men to me.

And I lost. Truly winning would be if my father realizes that a girl in my life won't change me. If anything, she's made me face reality more. Made me stronger. Not a weak, problem-avoider like my father.

My warm clothes aren't enough, so I put on a thick beanie, wrap a scarf around my neck and pull it up to my nose to cover any evidence of the fight, and put on gloves after slipping on a thick, navy blue coat.

The snow makes it harder to walk.

Before I break down, I get back in my car and drive off, hoping my the pain will abate soon, even though it shows no sign of doing so.

The streetlights and lamps are a blur, the noises are faded. I hear less, see less, almost as if the blood is taking the energy out of my body as well as soaking my woollen clothing. I pull the hood up in an attempt to cover the wet patch on my beanie. 

I should go to the hospital. I should get help. The world's spinning around me and I accidentally run over a bin, spilling all the rubbish on the front lawn of an unsuspecting resident. The sun's starting to set and it's making my surroundings so damn shiny because of the whiteness everywhere.

The car's starting to smell like my blood.

My bones hurt and feel numb at the same time. My heart's desperately pounding and pounding and pounding in my chest. 

Damn my father. It's my own life, and I'm going to be with who I want, when I want, where I want.

Even if that means I have to fight a million more men for her.

Some people take happiness for granted, and there's no way I'm making that mistake. Because if I have to fight for my happiness, I will.

And somehow, even when all my senses are slowly dying, when I can't think straight and the agonizing ache's taking over my body, I still end up in front of the house of the girl I'll go to the ends of the world for.

֍҉֍҉♥҉֍҉֍